Destructive Forces
by Locheline
Summary: Logan's still in Canada...but when a little southern belle brings chaos on his heels, he'll have to become more than just a fighter. WIP and no slash. It's a running series. Rating is a blanket one.
1. The Cage

The first scent that caught his attention was the smoke. The first sounds were the shouts of the crowd, heard faintly above the thunderous revolutions of his truck's engine. After weeks of wandering, driving aimlessly across the Canadian wilds and seeing the same damn things day after fucking day, he now felt somewhat appeased. He had begun to notice that age-old anger rising in his gut again...it was never satisfied, he'd found, and he pushed it away with irritation. Same as he'd done a thousand times before. He wondered absently what made it so hungry, but decided out of impatience that he didn't care enough to find out.

Besides, he had the perfect way to satisfy it.

The closer he got to the bar, the worse the road got. Apparently this was a popular place...who knew how many big rigs dragged their chains this way and fucked up the road as they went. His balls were just about to jump ship by the time he pulled into the parking lot, and he stepped sorely out of the cab as soon as the engine had wheezed to a stop.

The pain quickly wore itself out, just as he'd known it would, and he ignored it.

The air wasn't much colder outside the truck than in, and he had no problems with waiting in the fresh air for a bit. He was dreading the noise he could hear inside the bar; it had multiplied since he'd first detected it. It sounded like a couple of bears had barged in and were mauling the people inside.

Logan wished they'd hurry the fuck up.

He popped his neck, reluctantly resigning himself to his choice, and strode silently inside.

The walls of the place didn't do much to muffle the ruckus, so Logan wasn't too surprised by the noise. He couldn't have prepared himself for the attack from the air, however. Sweat, beer, peanuts, denim, vomit, cotton, money, tobacco, gasoline...the list went on. He was immediately drawn to the unmistakable hint of copper in the air, the scent that came with the pounding of bodies against steel. His was a feral reaction, but the odor's familiarity preserved the anger in his veins, and he didn't fight it; it would keep him on his toes while he fought. A hundred other smells that he noticed after these first strong whiffs had him dying for the freshness of the road. He found it hard to breathe without noticing something new for his nose to examine, and even harder to stop himself gulping at the air like some kind of rabid dog...though his instincts were dying for him to do just that. Still, he managed. He'd had practice.

The ring was surrounded by fifty or sixty people, all of them hollering at the top of their lungs. The noise grated against his eardrums and his anger spiked. He shoved his way through the crowd, most of the people slouched on row after row of empty kegs, and finally got himself over to the door of the cage.

The loser of the last fight was being dragged out in front of him, not too gently, and Logan threw his jacket and shirt on the floor after the guy was out of the way. The champ was hooting and hollering just like the rest of them, and it pissed him off. /This cocky fuck better shut his mouth damn quick,/ he thought viciously to himself. He didn't really have any reason to believe he could win; the champ was at least a head taller than his five foot three frame, and twice as wide. But he'd been in fights before. The big guy would hit the floor in what, three punches? Four?

It really pissed Logan off when the crowd started laughing at his back.

But no one was gonna turn down an opportunity to see some idiot get the shit knocked out of him; as the ref announced the fighters ('Dirty Joe an' his new pal!') the audience roared and jeered and shouted slurred insults at the two men.

Logan couldn't block the noise out completely, but he could concentrate well enough to do his job. Besides, even if he'd been hog-tied to the floor, the champion couldn't have taken him down. The bigger man took a swing at his challenger, fist blurring towards the little guy's face like a sledgehammer ready to crash. But it veered suddenly off course as a grubby hand swatted it away, the champ's punch no more than an irritating waste of time. The big man felt the strength of the slap uncomprehendingly, but he didn't get the chance to think about it too hard before a heavy fist caught him on the jaw and slammed him back against the other side of the ring.

Logan knew a few things about cage fights. You never grabbed the other bitch. You didn't use your head, your feet, or your nails. You didn't kick him in the balls. If you wanted to get the money you were owed, you used your fists and fought like a man.

And if you wanted the crowd to cheer you on, you let the other guy take the first punch.

Logan didn't really give a fuck whether the people in the stands liked him or not. He just wanted to make sure he got paid. Hell, he didn't give a rat's ass about the money, either. But fair was fair and when he got cheated, he got pissed.

Public places were the worst locations for that to happen.

So he fought clean to please them, and they kept him relatively civilized by not shitting in his face. It was a one-sided deal, but it kept everyone happy...so Logan did his part without complaint.

The big guy fought like a rhino, dumb and slow but innocently sure he could win. His first punch was impossible to miss and Logan heard his opponent's bones crack as he swatted the fist away. Elephant Boy looked at his broken wrist with a confused expression, wondering at the unexpected jolt of pain, and Logan waited for the giant to meet his eyes again before he took one heavy fist and slammed it into the big guy's jaw.

The bastard grunted as he was knocked backwards, his fall rattling the chain-link fencing that surrounded the cage. The crowd was over its shock at shorty's strength, and was making more noise than ever before. Some of the onlookers cheered the stranger on, and some urged the champ back to his feet. It didn't matter to Logan which was which.

It wasn't over too long after that. Elephant Boy wasn't as strong as he'd looked at first, especially after seven other fights that night; Logan could smell that many different challengers on his skin. As two boys dragged the loser out of the ring, his head lolling unconsciously between his shoulders, the ref came in and handed Logan a whiskey. He didn't bother with congratulations, just asked the new champ what he wanted his fighting title to be, but his eyes were wide. Shorty had taken down a mountain in three hits. It was a feat to be proud of.

"M'name's Wolverine," Logan said in reply to the ref's question. His voice was hard as steel and twice as cold...and if anyone else wanted to laugh at him after his victory that night, they had to be in the cage to do it. 


	2. Marie

It's not too terribly unpredictable yet, I know, but hopefully you'll have some fun seeing what (I think) the characters were thinking about during the event. And now we shall see if I have the energy for chapter three.

Oh, and please critique!

* * *

Marie stirred herself out of a restless half-sleep as the truck shuddered to a stop, chains clinking noisily against the dirty snow. The driver, an old trucker she'd shared no more than four words with the entire trip, came around and yanked her door open. Her small duffel bag slid unceremoniously to the ground, and she pulled the plastic sports bag with her sleeping roll inside out as she got off her seat. The trucker slammed the door behind her once he was sure she wouldn't have to come back and bother him about something she'd forgotten, and went around to the driver's side again to lock the cab.

"Excuse me..." Marie chimed shyly, unsure of how to politely give him her thoughts. "Thank ya for th' ride, but...ah thought we were goin' somewheah...biggah?" She had been hoping for a quaint mining town, not a couple of metal-roofed shacks along the highway. A payphone and some decent food might be good, too, but here she wasn't sure if she could trust anything to be clean.

"I ain't drivin' ya all the way back to the interstate, kid, if that's what yer lookin' for," he growled roughly. He had already started walking towards what looked like the only restaurant in town. Marie ruefully acknowledged that he would give her no more help, no matter how nicely she asked, and she followed him quietly into what was not actually a restaurant but a rough-cut saloon.

The place turned out to be much more of a curiosity to Marie than she could ever have assumed from the outside. The main room of the business had a cage at its center, which was surrounded by a huge crowd of people. The noise was deafening, but it wasn't the profanity that made Marie jump...it was the rattle of the cage walls, the sharp sound that cut through all the distractions and shocked her well out of her sleepy demeanor. She hurried quickly to an unoccupied corner of the room, so she wouldn't be in anyone's way, and watched the display with timid fascination. She had never seen a cage fight before. Whether that was because she'd just stayed away from anywhere seedy enough to host a thing like it, or some other factor was at work, it wasn't clear. But she found herself watching the action with a somewhat primitive fascination, letting her mind engulf itself in the lightning-fast twists of the muscular fighters.

Plus, being the age that she was, she couldn't help but find herself overly attracted to the toned, shirtless men sweating away for her in the arena.

She pushed away those emotions angrily. She could never have a man now, no matter how strong he was...she would always be too dangerous for him.

As she watched, her mind bringing her close to tears, she began to notice that one man never left the ring. He was short and sturdy, with wild black hair and a dark face that never quite came into the light. At the end of each match he was there in the winner's circle, taking a shot of some kind of alcohol to quench his thirst. He fought calmly, Marie thought at first, but the more she observed the more she felt like she could see the little bit of extra energy that helped him win each time. An inner fire, so to speak. She wasn't sure what to make of it, what sort of personality fueled a trait like that, but she couldn't help but admire his skill. Most opponents only lasted through three or four of his punches before they fell to the floor. He was brutal.

After a while, though, Marie began to notice the noise more and the sport less. She wished she'd brought something to do on her trip...and then there she was, thinking of home again.

Tears welling in her eyes, she turned away from the cage and made her way into the bar.

She didn't figure that anyone around here would care if she was underage, but even so she sat down timidly, ready to flee if someone came towards her. The bartender was the only one, an aging man with a giant mustache and a scrappy looking vest over his plaid shirt. Marie asked him quietly if he could bring her a glass of water, and he obliged without a word. The T.V. above the shot glasses droned tonelessly on, saying something about the U.N. World Summit...and mutants.

Marie's mind shifted miserably back to what she'd become.

* * *

Hours later the stuffiness of the bar had slowly dispersed as the customers had taken their leave. A few still lingered, either too drunk or too tired to head on their way, and Marie had the distinct impression that she was the only female in the entire establishment. It was a fact that would have made her nervous if it weren't for her poisonous skin. The cage fights had been over for a while now, and the girl watched a few men clean up the ring for tomorrow night's entertainment.

The wild-haired man was nowhere to be seen.

Marie picked at the stitching on her duffel bag, the loose threads providing her with mindless amusement. But her thoughts were far away, worried, as she tried desperately to see what was ahead for her. All she could predict was loneliness and desperation. She had no money and no way to get a job, much less hold one after her employers found out what she was. Her thoughts drifted unhappily from one hazy version of her future to the next, unable to settle or give her any peace. It was hopeless.

That was when the wild-haired man settled heavily onto a barstool to her left.

Adrenaline surged through Marie's veins at his sudden appearance, and her heart did a little flip of surprise...he'd been so _quiet!_ He glanced at her and held her gaze, head cocked and frightening amber eyes calculating. She got the strangest impression from those eyes that he could hear her heart pounding away in her chest, and that thought made her pulse race all over again. She turned away before he did, yanking her eyes forward with a colossal effort, but the fighter examined her for a few seconds more before he refocused his attention onto a much more rewarding subject: the bartender.

Marie took a chance once he'd looked away and furtively glanced at him again, sure he'd be oblivious to her attentions, but she was shocked to meet his stare again. His amber eyes turned black with what Marie assumed was anger, his heavy brows shadowing his eyes until they were dangerously dark. He was much more aware of her than she'd expected him to be. She flinched away from his expression with a little jump.

The news story about the U.N. Summit popped onto the television screen again, just as Marie cast one more glance at the stranger. This time she was more cautious, examining him out of the corner of her eye. Wolverine, the ref had said. Was it a name the man had chosen himself, or was it a nickname he'd earned over time? Whichever it was, it certainly fit him well.

He caught her staring, and their eyes met for a long second, but this time he glanced tamely away...his cigar was much more interesting than her nosy attitude. He generously allowed her to look him up and down, but when he deliberately shifted his shoulder towards her she quickly looked back at the T.V. She wasn't sure if he'd really meant the gesture as a warning, but she wasn't going to chance it; provoking him would be a very bad thing.

That was when a man came up to the bar and plunked himself down next to the fighter, immediately drawing the eyes of everyone left in the bar. The guy was huge. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, with tattoos across his shiny pink scalp and a tattered biker jacket slumped over his shoulders. The wild-haired man, dwarfed by the giant's size, glanced at his new companion out of the corner of his eye and then went back to watching the news, his attitude that of one without fear; and that didn't make sense at all. This new man was _enormous._

"You owe me some money," the biker said blatantly, a dangerously confident tone in his voice. The Wolverine didn't even glance away from the T.V.

"C'mon, man." the stranger persisted. "You ain't even hurt, are ya? You got one bruise on you, boy?" He punched the fighter in the ribs, hard, and the Wolverine's jaw tightened angrily. "You beat everyone in th' place and you're thinkin' you c'n get away with that? Eh, boy? I'm'a talkin' to _you!_" He gave the fighter a harder shove this time, causing him to fumble with his cigar.

Wolverine turned slowly away from the television to face the biker, one hand resting against his thigh. It was tight, like a bowstring, ready to snap forward with enough force to knock the other man to his knees. "Ya think I give a shit what you want, you motherfuckin' sonofabitch?" His reply was icy calm, his voice much quieter than Marie had expected it to be...and, ironically, much more frightening. His tone was more furious than the biker's in its own way; Marie thought she could even hear a snarl in the back of his throat.

"Don't you get yourself into no trouble now, boy," the bartender interjected calmly. Marie hadn't noticed him come up, but there he was, a rifle in his hands. The weapon was loaded and aimed straight for the Wolverine's head. "Olson here's a good friend, an' we don' want him hurt now, got it?"

The fighter's fist got even tighter, knuckles bloodless and white beneath the taut skin. Marie thought he might start throwing punches regardless of the danger he was in, but he did not. Instead he lunged for the rifle and grabbed hold of it over the bartender's hand; his arm had been hidden beneath the counter, but the movement was so swift that it took Marie a second to figure out what had happened. She assumed he was going to try and pry the bartender's hand off the gun, but he never got the chance.

A shot rang out in the surprised instant after the fighter's hand clamped down on the gun. An ominous _ping_ of metal on metal was heard almost simultaneously with the bullet's explosion. Marie gave a little yelp and ducked reflexively, though of course if the gun had been aiming for her she wouldn't have had a chance.

Wolverine let go of the weapon, letting his hand fall away to rest lightly on the counter again. His left arm lay unmoving on his leg; the fingers had not loosened from their fist at all. The bartender and his biker friend both had terrified expressions on their faces, expressions Marie didn't understand at all. Why were they so scared? Of the wild-haired fighter? They had been the ones to threaten him! To _shoot_ at him!

The Wolverine stood silently, downing his unfinished whiskey before he went. "He ain't gonna live through the night," he growled to the bartender, gesturing at the biker with a cigar-laden hand.

And then he turned and strode out the back door.

They had tried to kill the man. Kill him, for winning all of those fights. Marie understood, she could see the logic in it, but she couldn't grasp the twisted sense of ethics these men had. This thing she had just witnessed was not at all fair, and fairness was what she wanted more than anything else in the world.

She had to get away.

So she picked up her bags and rushed after the man who had just left.


	3. Impact

Finally something that _really_ strays from the movie canon. Took me a while to get to this point, but I wanted to mould the story on a good foundation.

Anywho, R&R s'il te plait!

* * *

He knew she was there. He'd known before he'd even gotten all the way out of the bar. Her footsteps were heavy; they'd caught his attention because he thought that one of the cunts from the counter was coming after him. He couldn't smell her then...but when he heard the soft bags plunking gently into the bed of the truck, he knew.

He forced himself to let her get in. He'd confront her later, when he didn't have to worry about a couple of bastards coming out to...

To what? What could they possibly do?

_Still,_ he thought sharply to himself. _Better not to start that kind of shit with a kid involved._ He'd find a gas station, drop her off, make sure she stayed out of his stuff...and with a plan in mind, he laid one heavy boot on the gas pedal, finally pulling out onto the road.

His keen eyes didn't catch the bartender glaring through the window as he went.

* * *

"Yeah, this J.?" An angry voice growled into the phone. "S'just a mutant in my bar. Wanna go huntin'? ...Yeah, s'dangerous. Won every fight tonight...Naw, J., cage fights. We don' do brawls like that, an' you knows it. A clean match don' bring the cops around." The man on the other end of the line said something, and the bartender named a few landmarks before he hung up. After tonight he'd never have to worry about wasting a bullet on that guy again.

He didn't know where the mutant had been, but with a little help the bartender would make sure he never got where he was going.

* * *

A few hours later Logan was still chugging along, now miles away from the bar. He was still brooding over the night's events. He'd decided to stay away from the place until he happened to drift into that part of the territory again, and then he'd let himself go back. They didn't want to see him, and he wasn't all that interested in forcing his company onto them either, but the only thing they could do to him was have him arrested. And it wasn't against the law to survive a gunshot wound.

Still, attempting suicide _was_ a crime...

All of a sudden there was a wicked crash from behind. Wolverine just about jumped through the roof; he hadn't been in the bar half as long as needed to get used to noises like that. He stopped right there in the middle of the road.

Screw the gas station. She'd get out right here.

He got out to see what damage had been done. His motorcycle was lying sideways in the bed of the truck; it had fallen over on one of the road's turns, and it was obvious why. The kid had wedged her bags, and herself, between his cord of wood and the bike. The latter had been leaning on the former, but with three good-sized bundles in between the motorcycle hadn't been able to balance the way it was supposed to.

She was damn lucky that he hadn't left the tailgate open. If that bike had fallen out onto the road...

Logan walked up to the side of the truck's bed, throwing the tarp off and roughly depositing the girl's luggage on the ground. "What in hell do ya think you're doin'?" he growled, his cigar sticking out from between his teeth like an old bone.

She stammered a little under his glare, fumbling for some good words that she could use to explain the situation. Finally she gave up and settled for the truth. "Ah needed a rahde, and ah thought you maht help me..."

"Get out." His tone couldn't be any clearer: there was no help being offered here.

"What'm ah s'posed ta do?" she whined. Logan wondered if that Southern accent was real or fake, but he ended up ignoring it.

"I dunno," he growled back.

"You don' know or you don' care?" she asked, innocent sadness dripping like honey from her words.

"Pick one," he snapped. She was finally out. He stomped silently back to the cab, listening carefully as he started the engine to make sure she didn't try to get back in. She didn't.

But then another sound caught his attention.

Cursing, Wolverine shoved his door open again. The girl was still standing in the road, a crestfallen expression pasted on her face. He didn't even notice it as he yanked her bags away from her and dragged them roughly around to the other side of his truck. He had trouble opening the door, and when it did break loose it came with several years' worth of rust and squeaky hinges, but he grit his teeth against the noise and threw the bags in. "C'mon, kid!" he shouted as he jogged back to the driver's side. _Goddamnit, what was she waiting for?_

The girl gave a little jump of surprise and rushed around to the passenger seat, hopping in quickly and trying to settle herself on top of the mess without attracting his attention too much. She fumbled with some of the beer bottles on the floor, trying to get them out of the way of the door before she closed it, and Logan grit his teeth in frustration. She was wasting time.

"Jesus fucking Christ, kid, you think you can go any slower?" His snarl was anything but kind as he reached across her lap to yank the door shut. The bottles moved themselves out of the way, rolling back from the door as it slammed; one of them got stuck in the gap between the door and the floor, and the explosive sound made Logan flinch.

The kid jumped as the glass shattered and quietly shifted herself away from the carnage. She was halfway facing Logan now, and he felt like she was staring at him; his animalistic nature screamed for him to get her to look away. The conflict was pissing him off.

The kid broke the silence before he did, opening her mouth just as he stomped on the gas pedal. "Wha did ya change your mind?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"I just did," Logan said after a long pause, his voice just as quiet as hers but much, much sharper. He was tense, his ears and his mind watching the road behind him...he was keeping track of the bartender's voice, not the conversation.

Goddamnit, they were catching up!

"Why're we going soh fast?" the girl asked about fifteen minutes later. Logan glanced at her, tasted the air, and realized she was afraid; he was driving like a maniac, body crouched over the wheel, hands tense, eyes wide. Teeth bared ever so slightly. Jesus, she could see his teeth. Wolverine clamped his lips shut, hiding his long canines, and focused on relaxing. He sat back. Loosened his grip on the wheel. Took a breath.

"Them guys from the bar're followin' us," he replied shortly. Jesus, she probably wished she'd stayed in town. But her scent grew fearful again at his words, and he took it as an excuse to step on the gas, not considering that her fear might be of something else. She never asked how he knew what he'd told her, and he wouldn't have given away his secrets if she had.

But it didn't matter what he did. His old beater didn't stand a chance. In two corners the hunters had come into sight in the rearview mirror; in another two corners they were close enough to start shooting. Logan's rear tires went flat pretty quick with ten or so shots to each wheel. He had to admit, it was a smart move. He hadn't given them that much credit.

It also really pissed him off.

A string of curses erupted from his mouth, the words becoming more of a snarl than a sentence as he said them. He yanked the wheel over and spun the truck around right in the middle of the road. It had enough momentum to slide in a half-circle, but he couldn't go any further with his busted tires.

Fuck. This was really gonna hurt.

The hunters shouted and tried to swerve away, but there was no time. With a screech that made the forest howl, their SUV slammed headlong into the driver's side of Logan's truck, and the well-worn steel folded in over his body as if it wanted to drag him to Hell itself.


	4. Unusual Circumstances

This chapter gave me problems. I don't mean for it to sound slow, if it does-I can never judge my work properly-but it is really supposed to happen quite fast. Most of the actions and reactions I see in my head only take a fraction of a second to run their course. I sincerely hope I've conveyed that.

Being the compulsive person that I am, I'll probably be back editing this a week from now, feeling disgusted with the whole thing. Oh well.

Thanks for reading, and please toss me a review!

* * *

The impact was like a fire that ripped its way along Logan's ribs. He snarled at the pain, his metal-plated bones absorbing the impact easily and forcing the pressure to push itself through somewhere else. The bumper dug into his stomach with about as much grace as a chainsaw, and everything else disappeared for a moment as his senses converged on the pain.

He couldn't even have the good luck to pass out.

His head exploded in agony as the other truck continued to crumple on him, the sharp edges of the shattered windshield digging into his scalp with about as much kindness as a meat grinder before it was sidetracked by the adamantium on his skull; still, it found enough energy to slide sideways across his forehead for several inches before gravity pulled it away. His ears shrieked in protest at all the sensory overload that car crashes afford; Logan shrieked with them, a roar of pain at that first impact which cut off quickly behind clenched teeth. A swell of sickening dizziness surged up Wolverine's throat as both cars ground sideways across the road, and in that one reaction a hundred jolts of pain shot through his wrecked innards. Why, oh why, could it not just have severed his spine?

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Logan just lay there, his body forced into an awkward fetal position from his seat collapsing on him, and let out a weak, throaty moan. He didn't need to do a mental check to make sure he was okay; there was no doubt he'd survive this. It made him mad as hell.

The first coherent thoughts he could manage were angled at the girl.

He wondered if she was awake. He knew she was alive; he could hear her heartbeat, though it had taken him a few seconds to find it through the pain-induced fog. That was more than he could say about the men from the bar. His body must have shielded the girl from the impact; that was the only way she could still be alive.

He was now hazily wondering if he could use his claws or not. He didn't want to, and for Logan the reason was petty: it would hurt. He could feel the dull, throbbing ache in his head where the skin on his face was healing over, among other things, and he wasn't eager to add to the pain. But he wouldn't be able to move unless he could do some good, old-fashioned hacking...and he wasn't willing to do that unless he knew the girl wouldn't see.

He didn't _want_ her to see. He didn't want to feel her blood on his hands if he accidentally stabbed her, and a small part of him didn't want to smell her fear if she saw. But his instincts were the strongest factor when it came to his claws, and he sure as hell didn't want her to know what he could do. The healing...well, that couldn't be helped. But he wasn't gonna show off for her in some half-assed attempt to gain her trust or admiration, of all things. It was better to hide your advantages in iany/i circumstance, no matter how weak you thought your companion was.

He groaned again when he heard a stifled sobbing coming from somewhere to his right. His head was turned sideways, facing the direction the other truck had hit, which was why he hadn't seen her good health for himself. But the fact that she could cry meant that she was awake...and he couldn't catch the scent of very much blood. _Dammit,_ he cursed silently; but then, he'd never had such good luck.

It looked like he was gonna have to do this the hard way.

He wondered what to move first, and finally decided that it'd have to be his arms. His left hand was already twisted behind him, conveniently positioned where he could push the seat back, and he tried his best...but there wasn't enough leverage. Groaning, Logan pulled his other arm back from over his head and elbowed the cushion until it fell into its usual place; Wolverine grit his teeth against the fire that roared in his gut at the sudden movement.

There was a quiet gasp from the passenger seat.

Logan's arms were almost completely healed by now. His head was fine, and his right leg was, too, but his left leg was pinned awkwardly against something long and sharp and he knew he'd have to move before the gash could heal all the way.

He had no idea how to deal with the metal in his gut.

He rolled his head over to look at the girl. She was fine with no major injuries that he could see. Glass, sure, and a few scrapes from other things, but Logan didn't think she'd so much as bumped her head. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't even know her name. "Whattya called, kid?" he slurred at her, but she didn't respond; her eyes were still as big as saucers.

Oh well. Maybe she could tell him later.

He figured he might as well get it over with. Taking a deep breath, he took hold of the bumper and _pushed._

The metal groaned and Logan shuddered, the pain making his head spin, but it was easier to move the metal away than he would have expected. He pushed with all the strength in his body and was finally left gasping, sitting sideways in his seat with a huge chunk of steel in his hands. A few minutes later, after his stomach had healed and he'd gotten his legs out of the tangle, he glanced over at the girl to really see what kind of a state she was in.

She had fainted, and Logan was sure her face wasn't supposed to be that green. She might have been dead...but no. He could hear her breathing.

He didn't mind that she'd passed out at all. She was being quiet, staying still and she wouldn't need watching while he changed out of his bloody clothes; not watching not because he was afraid she'd run away, but because he liked his privacy.

He went around to her side of the truck and cut the door off with one adamantium blade, watching her still form warily as he did. The frame of the cab was somewhat bent on the passenger side but mostly intact; it seemed like he'd taken a bigger hit than the truck itself. Logan honestly couldn't understand why he had such shitty luck...it wasn't like he'd done anything bad enough to deserve it.

With a grimace, he corrected himself. Nothing bad enough that he _remembered._ The gaping hole in his life where his past should have been had never filled itself in, and though he could ignore it most of the time it was in moments like these where he felt like his own body was cheating him. Telling him, _it's not fair what you can do. So I'm holding your history for ransom until you give your powers back._

It really pissed him off.

Logan yanked off all that was left of his clothes and scrubbed the blood off his skin with handfuls of snow. The ice pushed the tender remnants of pain away and woke him up from his half-awake, just-deal-with-this-shit mood. His clothes were clean and dry as he pulled them out from under the passenger seat, and he yanked the jeans and wifebeater on quickly. He'd salvaged his boots and belt from the crash, though they both had some ugly-looking stains on them now; his leather jacket was history. He pulled on his two remaining lumberjack shirts, saving them the only way he could think of...you never knew what you were gonna need way out here.

The girl was still out cold when he'd finished. He looked at her limp form awkwardly, unsure what he was supposed to do with it, and decided quickly that he wasn't going to carry her all the way to town. So he dragged her out of the truck and piled cold snow on her forehead until she woke up.

* * *

Marie awoke with a shock as someone slapped something cold onto her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a minute all she could see was the icy blue sky.

Then a dark shape stepped ominously into her line of vision. Marie's head spun as she tried to recall the origin of her fear. "Get up," the man barked at her, obviously not patient enough to wait for her to understand; but then she had it. She took a sharp breath and pushed herself into a sitting position like she'd been struck by lightning, adrenaline pounding through her veins. _He shouldn't be alive!_

He jerked back from her sudden motion and his eyes narrowed; again, Marie could have sworn that he'd heard her heartbeat. But he spun away and was stalking off down the road before she could utter a word.

"Where ya goin'?" she asked after a shocked pause, doing her best to hide the quiver of fear in her voice. She'd just watched a man get crushed by a truck, impaled, and practically ripped to shreds, and now he was walking away like nothing had happened. Granted, she'd passed out after he'd asked her for her name, but she'd seen enough to wonder who she had been stupid enough to hitch a ride with. Could her skin even stop him, if he wanted to hurt her?

"'M goin' ta town," he replied shortly. "You c'n come or stay here 'n pray fer a miracle." Marie knew what he meant by that; a miracle was the only way to get picked up on a road like this. She'd learned that quicker than anything else when she'd left Toronto for the wilderness farther north.

"But...don't yah think it would be ah good adeah tuh check on the othah drahvers...or at least cahll the puhlice...maybe?" she persisted in a louder voice as he got farther away. Wouldn't he care enough to do that, at least? And how was he so sure that the people in the other truck had been from the saloon?

"Kid, that's th' stupidest thing I've heard in years." His statement wasn't an exaggeration.

She hesitated, choosing between safety and convenience as quickly as she could. He was a dangerous man; Marie had seen undeniable evidence of that all night long. But it was definitely not safe for her to stay with the truck, for many reasons...and so, choosing the lesser of two evils, she ran to catch up. She slowed to a skipping walk when she reached him, her small steps barely matching his enormous stride, but he didn't slow down to accommodate her. "Whah's it ah bahd ideah?" she asked him in a breathy voice. She kept her distance, not brave enough to bridge the wide gap between them, and the thoughts that kept her away made her heart race. But he didn't make any effort to get closer himself-he didn't even look at her. His eyes were locked on the road ahead.

"You don' think th' cops'll be wonderin' why we ain't hurt, kid? Why we c'n jes walk away when them fuckers're wiped all over the damn highway? They ain't idiots." He still didn't look at her, but there was a cold edge to his voice, and his expression was furious.

Marie was surprised by the Wolverine's reaction. Though it fit the mould, she couldn't think of a reason for him to be angry with the police unless he was a criminal; and that was certainly an option, if she was any judge of character. He was probably still upset over his truck, or didn't want to walk all the way to town...at least, those were the excuses Marie chose to believe. If she'd had any idea what really fueled his anger, she would have realized just how much she owed him. He had saved her life just by giving her a ride, and here she was questioning that generous decision. The two of them were in the same boat, whether they knew it or not, and the police would more likely arrest them for being what they were than trust their unbelievable reports of the event.

"Ahr you a mutant?" she asked suddenly, her voice quiet but still clear in the cool night air. The confused memory of his mangled body starkly contrasted with what she saw now, and though she was worried about how he might react to her curiosity, she couldn't avoid the question any longer.

He looked sharply at her, his amber eyes wolfish in the moonlight, and she again felt pinned by his unwavering gaze. But he looked away quickly, refocusing on the highway with a bitter expression.

"What's it ta you?" he growled finally. Marie noticed that this time he made no effort to hide his teeth.

She stared at her feet hard, her thoughts passing across her face in innocently obvious shifts. She wanted so badly to tell him, to reveal what she was to someone that might not want to kill her for it, but she was afraid a confidence like that might cross some barrier and he'd kill her anyway. She argued with herself for what felt like a long time, unable to decide what she wanted, but just as the moment was about to pass, she blurted it out.

"Ah'm ah muhtant," Marie admitted softly. She almost added 'too', but stopped herself before she could say something she'd regret. She kept her eyes on the road, ashamed of herself, but she couldn't avoid glancing at him out of the corner of her eye every few seconds. The silence was killing her. What would he do?

The Wolverine never stopped walking. He never even looked at her, as far as she could tell. But when he finally spoke, she could have sworn his voice was softer.

"Ya don' lookit," he pointed out, and then he _was_ looking at her, his golden eyes finally losing their piercing edge. He looked...old. Like a stuffed toy that had been left out in the rain for too long. Marie's fear slowly drained away as she watched his golden eyes; she was an emphatic person, and his weariness easily crossed the gap between them. She wasn't scared anymore...just very, very tired.

"I dunno what I am, kid," he said in a quiet, almost resigned voice. Marie felt like it was something he hadn't really meant to say out loud, or something she wasn't supposed to hear.

And then the mask was back. "What's yer name?" He barked, and she answered automatically. "Marie."

"Where ya from?" So her accent was just as heavy as she'd feared.

"Mississippi."

"That's a long mile south of here ta come all th' way up north, don't ya think?" Marie wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical or not, but she nodded awkwardly just in case. "Where're you from?" she asked him.

"Around." His voice was suddenly cold again, and she didn't question him further.

He was the one to break the silence. "How old are ya, kid?"

"Fihfteen. 'N you?" He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow warningly.

So that was another closed topic.

"How far ta town?" she asked instead.

"I dunno," he replied as if the distance made no difference to him, and _knowing_ the distance didn't help him much, either. Marie supposed that his attitude, though painfully careless, was probably the more sensible one to have anyways; she found herself wondering why she wanted to know the answer to her question so badly in the first place.

It was silent for a few minutes, Marie turning over a new question in her mind and Wolverine looking on down the road. Finally she got up the courage to ask him what she wanted to know. "Can ya hear my heartbeat?" she blurted awkwardly, and an instant later she regretted it. Hadn't he made it clear he didn't want to talk about things like that?

His jaw clenched angrily, and Marie couldn't help but flinch. "Mebbe I can, mebbe I can't," he growled.

He glared at her, and she looked away quickly, her eyes back on her feet.

"Ah'm sawry-ah just thought...it wahs a stupid guess, ah'm sawry," she stammered, feeling his eyes still boring into her, even after she'd gone back to contemplating the snow.

"That's one helluva guess," he growled sourly a few long seconds later. Marie couldn't tell if it was a confirmation or not.

Finally he _did_ pause, stopping so suddenly that she kept walking for several steps before she realized that he was no longer striding along next to her. She stopped too and looked back at him, her eyes questioning him silently.

He stood motionless and tense, his weight pressed forwards as if he was preparing to run. His head was tilted slightly, his expression colder than any time she'd seen it so far. Calculating. Listening, too...and following his silent cues, Marie started listening too.

But she couldn't hear a thing.

Finally he started walking again, but his pace was slower, more hesitant, and he obviously wasn't completely relaxed.

"What is it?" Marie asked finally, worried by his wariness. What made a man who could survive being hit by a truck worry?

He hesitated before he responded, his frown deepening in confusion as he spoke. His voice was distracted. "I dunno...but it ain't a helicopter, and that's what's fucked up about it. It's a jet."


	5. Charlie's Team

The jet whizzed through the clouds soundlessly, the cockpit warm despite the icy Canadian night outside. The temperature gauge read twenty-six degrees, weather Jean was not used to seeing at any time of year save for the dead of winter.

It was currently late spring.

She was in contact with Professor Xavier, his mind reaching further across the vast distance between them than hers was. The coordinates Cerebro had recognized had been changing constantly, and Jean assumed that the person they were tracking was running from whatever his mutation had revealed to less-than-friendly company.

Charles did not tell her the truth, his own readings from Cerebro pledging otherwise, but he did not mention this to her...still, even he was not looking for the girl accompanying the mutant that had caught his eye.

Storm was content to monitor the progress of the Blackbird for now, her blue eyes occasionally flicking over to meet Jean's chocolate brown ones. The redhead would tell her when and where to land, but Ororo could see that the shifting location would be a problem. It wasn't odd for a retrieval team to run into trouble like this, but it was still an irritation.

Storm didn't dwell on that.

A cut of black shadows up ahead marked a road; Jean followed it keenly, and when the womens' eyes met again the redhead nodded. Ororo circled around until she was following the highway that sliced its way through the wilderness. A clearing made itself obvious within a few minutes, just big enough to land in, and Storm guided the Blackbird to earth with slow but practiced hands.

The two women got out and started walking, the highway slowly guiding them to the northeast. The moonlight easily lit their way as they chattered about men and classes and that restaurant in Salem they liked. The wreck of two pickup trucks came into view within fifteen minutes.

Jean's gasp of shock was loud in the snowy silence, her green eyes wide and now scarred with the destruction before her. Ororo's lips came together in a hard line, her expression unreadable. One thing was clear to both women...there was death here.

A man was watching them from down the road a ways, still as a statue, too far away for either woman to notice any details. A girl stood at his side. Jean could sense the man's tension at this distance, but just barely; she started walking towards the strangers and Storm's irises lightened imperceptibly in anticipation. Her worry was for the girl, not for herself or her partner. Xavier would approve.

The man cocked his head as the two women came nearer; Storm was close enough to see his eyes now, and they unsettled her. There was something black in there, a cold, calculating sureness she'd never seen before...even in Magneto. He glanced at her then and met her stare, the moonlight reflecting off the irises and painting them a luminescent gray. She broke off the contact with a little jerk. The girl stood to the side, not so far away, and Ororo found her to be a much friendlier sight. She looked as if she could use a good meal and a long rest, but the visage she painted was a hundred times better than those silver eyes...

Jean could feel the minds of the strangers becoming more potent as she got closer. The first thing she noticed was that they were almost exact opposites. The girl was shy and a little bit fearful, but the calm in her head increased as the two women came nearer. She'd been neglected as of late, her ratty hair and shadowed eyes making this fact painfully obvious, but she had a child's hope and these two people were a godsend in her opinion.

On the other hand, the man was suspicious. His mistrust went to a degree that was almost inconceivable. Jean was glad that she'd approached him slowly, aware that she could easily have been overloaded by his thoughts. His emotions were so strong...and they shifted so fast! There was no mixture here; each feeling emanating from him was powerful and sure and easily identified. A sudden rush of anger came when Storm met his eyes, a demonstration of the raw energy he could express. Jean tried to dig deeper into his thoughts, to find where the fury came from or maybe what made it so potent, but she couldn't make it past his surface thoughts.

And then his eyes were on her, a minute shift of his head the only physical indication that he wasn't interested in Ororo any more. But Jean had felt the shift from anger to curiosity; it was a tidal wave flowing backwards up a river, and she mentally cringed away from the uncomfortable sensation. She quickly decided that she didn't want any part of those eyes, and looked down to smile at the teenager standing on the man's left.

"Hello," Jean said in a pleasant voice, her face cheerful. Storm offered a smile as well and introduced herself and the redhead. "I'm Ororo and this is Jean...we're here from Xavier's School for the Gifted." Somehow she did not trust the situation enough to give the strangers their last names; she gave only their first ones and offered her hand to the child. The teen took it and gave it a gentle shake; Storm then held it out to the man.

He didn't return the friendly greeting. Storm found that she was relieved...she could envision him ripping her arm out of its socket for trying to become his friend, and she didn't care for that image at all.

Jean subtly reached up to put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. The redhead could feel the man's mind, and he wasn't mad...in fact, he was intensely amused. Almost as if a handshake was against his religion, and he found it hilarious that they would try to lure him into doing something so blatantly wrong.

Well. This was going to be interesting.

The girl was glancing between the adults with a quiet interest, her own emotions so soft and muted that Jean hardly noticed them. There was guilt there, but also excitement, a teen's dispassion for the adult world and her curiosity about the exchange mixing together until they could hardly be seen as separate. The child looked over at her more intense friend, almost as if she was asking for permission, and then gave the two X-Men a small smile that happily spoke her trust. "I'm Marie," she said in a quiet voice, a subtle southern accent making itself known.

But the peace was shattered as Jean caught another wave of emotion from the man. It was a protective instinct strong enough to make her take a small step back, a jolt of adrenaline shooting through her veins; she felt him recognize her distress, his attention flicking back to her, and then the ferocious defensiveness snapped back into a milder irritation. Jean couldn't understand the feelings and the thoughts that followed them, his words slicing through her mind like a scalpel. Shouldn't care anyways. Why did he feel so horrible about caring for the girl? His worry was the kind a father would have for his daughter, or perhaps more accurately an uncle for his niece, and there was nothing so bad about it that Jean could see; still, his self-hatred was absolutely crippling.

Then his thoughts shifted again, a sudden realization coming over him. His eyes narrowed in suspicion and Jean cowered under the weight of his glare, or more accurately under the weight of his thoughts. Even the girl was now watching her companion with concern.

"You readin' my mind?" he asked Jean, his voice low and gravelly and dangerously cold. Jean realized her mistake...her body had given her away, her heart responding to his intensely strong emotions before she'd gotten the chance to cover it up. He'd responded to her distress, she remembered with a start...and now he'd noticed the connection between his actions and hers. The oddity of him noticing her reaction never occurred to the redhead; Jean had seen plenty of odd things in her life.

She found herself jerking her head from side to side in response to his question, denying everything in a quivering voice. "No...it's not like that, I-"

"I c'n smell a liar," he growled, silencing her immediately. Ororo noticed his fists quivering at his sides, held away from himself at odd angles. She was taller than him, but the threat those hands presented made her suddenly begin to think seriously of slinking back to the jet with her tail between her legs. Something was very wrong here, and the situation was threatening to become dangerous. Ororo's eyes whitened even more, anticipation rising like bile in her throat.

She didn't like using her powers in self-defense, but she'd do what she had to...and her lightning was still a hundred times faster than he could ever be. 


	6. Hostility

I am _so_ sorry for procrastinating, and then tossing you a short chapter, but the holidays have been _extremely_ busy and this chapter gave me trouble. So forgive me!

Hopefully the next one will come very soon, of course...and thank you CaptMacKenzie for your excellent review. I love it when someone takes the time to put in that much insight!

* * *

The fire ripped down his arms, the pain excruciating but familiar; adrenaline coursed through his veins, making them throb as blades split muscle. It was taking all of his concentration to hold the knives back, but he didn't have all of his concentration to give. Logan was tracking every one of his companions' movements, watching each person separately from the others, and he couldn't keep himself in check while he was busy worrying about them. It was too much effort; the claws were slipping, along with his control. He was familiar enough with his own anatomy to know just when the adamantium ridges would be visible beneath the skin of his arms...and when they would be obvious below the reach of his shirts' sleeves. They were getting close to that point now.

He snarled quietly to himself as he felt them slip again. His arms were quivering, every muscle straining to keep the blades sheathed, but his instincts were telling him to do just the opposite. He wasn't supposed to trust these strangers from the south, and he wanted to leave, to run in the opposite direction from the scents of cotton and polyester and clean-cut society. But he _had_ to protect the girl. It was an obligation he couldn't refuse. So here he was, getting ready for another fight.

And then the struggle was over. The African woman's eyes lightened perceptibly in Logan's peripheral vision, turning almost white, and that subtle but curious change had his control slipping away as if it had never been in the first place. His claws slid out as a growl ripped up his throat and between his teeth; teeth that were slightly bared, lips pulled back to show just enough of his long canines. His reaction was fast, fluid, and completely instinctual, and it marked the end of his desire to take flight...he had just committed himself to the situation. But he wasn't going to attack...not yet. He was merely trying to warn the strangers about what they were getting into. Logan's wordless communication presented some very real dangers, but in his mind he was only responding to the African woman's actions. She had made the first move, after all.

Logan was the only one who didn't jump when the knives split his knuckles. The redhead's eyes widened and she squeaked in surprise, jumping back out of slicing range as quickly as possible. The girl from the bar gasped; Logan heard her mutter a breathy 'oh mah gawd', and take a big step back. The African's scent spiked with adrenaline and her eyes widened when she saw the silver blades, but she looked up and froze when she realized that the Canuck was focused on her. "Jean, I think this is what the Professor meant by 'a little feral'," Ororo said in a low voice, backing up as she spoke. Jean swallowed and nodded in agreement. This would definitely qualify as feral in her book...not that she had much experience. Hank was the only wildman she knew of, and he was the most cultured person she'd ever met.

Logan followed the conversation with his eyes alone; he raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Professor. "S'at another fuckin' mutie I gotta worry about pickin' through my head?" he growled, glaring pointedly at Jean. She cringed away from both his stare and his criticism, embarrassed with herself, but Ororo didn't appreciate the statement at all. She'd been backing away the whole time and was now far enough out of his reach to feel safe speaking her mind. "We just came to help," she said, indignant even as the haze of fear-scent floated on the wind. "We don't want any trouble."

Wolverine's frown deepened at that. _Well, ain't that ironic._ He caught the redhead staring at his forehead with a confused expression, her mask of disinterest slipping; when her eyes met his he cocked his head and she quickly looked away. "Where're you from?" he asked, still watching Jean with a cold glare. "Westchester, New York," Ororo replied, her voice sharp with both irritation and stress. The feral mutant seemed to become even more tense at her statement; the African noticed a muscle twitching on the back of his right hand, flush with the ridge of a blade. His eyes flicked away from Jean and back to her; he shook his head at her statement, frowning, suspicious of her claim. His movements were slight, but they seemed bigger in the cold; everything did, like the world was made of glass. "There's nothin' in Westchester...it's a tourist town." he paused, cocking his head slightly to the right, his jaw clenched. "Where're you ladies _really_ from?"

Ororo shook her head in disbelief. _Did he really need to be this wary?_ To him she said, "We _are_ from Westchester. Professor Charles Xavier is a telepath and the owner of the School for Gifted Youngsters. For mutants. We came to see if you needed help, and possibly a home at the mansion." She paused at that, her lips held together in a thin line, and added, "But we were expecting someone much, much younger."

At that, Marie looked over at Logan, shocked and terrified at the same time. She'd told him all about herself; would he give her away? These people might not really be from a school... Visions of skin grafts and needles embedded deep within her skull sent a shiver up her spine. Logan glanced at her just as Jean felt her fear and uttered a hushed "No..."

His eyes snapped back to the redhead as the sound caught his attention, and she immediately fell silent. But Marie need not have worried. Logan stayed tense, his eyes dark and unreadable as he spoke...he hadn't even considered accepting the offer. These women hadn't exactly warmed themselves to him. Then again, he hadn't tried all that hard to be friendly himself, but he wasn't interested in doing so. "I don't need your charity, darlin'," he growled at Ororo. "You tell your professor that I ain't interested. An' that I don't want ta see you gals again." His voice was completely emotionless and as cold as the night itself; he was giving nothing away but the threat, making sure they wouldn't have a reason to stay.

"Great, so we're done here?" Ororo said in response, her question more of a dismissal than anything else. Her voice snapped through the air like a whip. "Fine. Let's go, Jean." Jean nodded and started backing slowly away; Ororo was still watching Logan, obviously unwilling to turn around. _Smart girl._

Jean suddenly stopped moving and Logan stared at her warily, unsure what she was about to do. She was staring at the ground with a vacant expression, almost as if she was listening... For a second Wolverine thought she'd been sifting through his thoughts again, but then she looked up and frowned at him in confusion. "The Professor has a...job...for you," the redhead said in a hesitant voice, as if that was most definitely the wrong word for what Xavier had to offer.

She couldn't have been more correct.


End file.
